


The Cocktails Collection

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Crossdressing, Drinking & Talking, F/M, First Dates, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John Goes on Dates, M/M, MIT Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving the world, one drink at a time.<br/>Eight short stories originally published in "A Year's Worth of Cocktails".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harold Finch/John Reese

**Author's Note:**

> Finch goes deep undercover for a case.  
> Finch, Reese, casefic, crossdressing

Learning about a number, the quick way, is a fairly straightforward affair. Break into their house, hack the computer and copy their files, rifle through the mail, look under the mattress and the back of the underwear drawer, dig through all the neatly hung things in the front of the closet to find the neatly hidden things on the upper shelves.

Reese has a pretty good idea of what he'll find in this number's closet as soon as he jimmies the lock and enters the high-rise condo. “Finch, did you dig anything else up on our Harding Weber?” Reese asks as he steals into the quiet of deep plush carpet and thickly upholstered furniture. Burgundy and gold and dark wood bookcases where most people might store leather bound first editions, but not Weber.

“Nothing beyond what I gave you earlier. It seems Mr. Weber has lived a quiet life on his inheritance. No society page listings, no scandals, not even a traffic ticket.”

Reese listens as he continues past the bookcases and through the condo to what should be a den or entertainment room, but to Weber's custom instruction, has been re-imagined as an elaborate dressing room with a grand three way mirror and several outfits, some hanging, still freshly bagged from the dry cleaners, others in various states of composition laid out across a low divan.

“I don't think Weber is much for the high society set. “ Reese murmurs into the earpiece as he reads the cleaning tag. “See if your machine can find anything on 'Montana Cherrybomb'.”

“Excuse me?”

“Type.”

While he has jumped to his fair share of wrong conclusions in his time working with Finch and the numbers, Reese is near positive that the threat to Harding Weber is somehow connected to this collection of custom clothing and the shelves full of first place trophies in the living room.

“Mr. Reese? Montana Cherrybomb, as it turns out, has a much larger digital footprint than Harding Weber. In fact, she's kind of a big deal, as it were, in certain social circles. Ms. Cherrybomb is performing at the the Metropolitan Club tonight, in the finals of the Luscious Ladies of the Lounge competition. She's won it six years running now.”

“So somebody could be trying to even the playing field?”

“I think that's a reasonable assumption. Luckily for us I was able to procure a pair of tickets to tonight's competition.”

“Somehow I don't think my Man in the Suit routine will fly.”

“You'd be surprised, Mr. Reese. I'll take care of the wardrobe. Meet me at the safe house on Park when you're finished.”

 

**\--**

 

Reese arrives at the brownstone two hours later. Bear is resting patiently on his doggie bed inside the living room.

“Finch?” Reese calls out.

“Back here, a little help, please?” Finch answers from deep in the house. Reese follows the sound of his voice to the master bedroom where he finds the older man getting dressed.

Getting dressed in a dress. A wondrous high necked, emerald green, sequined affair that flows down over his bare feet.

“Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Reese. Would you get the zipper?” Finch asks nonchalantly as he turns. The back of the gown gapes open, framing a black silk slip underneath.

“I take it you've done this before?” Reese finally manages, one hand on Finch's hip as he pulls the zipper up.

“Once or twice. With Nathan.” Finch smooths the gown over his body before turning around to face Reese. “It's a wonder everything still fits, albeit a bit snugger. Nothing to do about it now.”

“Nothing wrong with snug,” Reese rasps in honest admission. The gown clings to Finch's not completely natural padding and curves and Reese has a brief and completely unprofessional thought of the black silk and everything else that could be hiding under the glittering green.

“I can take it from here, hair and make up. You should get dressed. The show starts at nine but we should get there early. I've narrowed our list of potential perpetrators down to two. The perennial second place winner and an upstart who has quite a lot of buzz around her.”

And just like that, Finch is back to business, as if he isn't choosing between a pair of strappy heels and a much more sensible, and definitely less sexy, pair of running shoes that can hide under the trail of the dress. As if he isn't now settled on the edge of the bed in black stockings that peek out from the side slit of the gown to slip on the shoes.

“Mr. Reese? Are you listening to me? Go get dressed. There's a fresh suit waiting for you in the other bedroom.”

Reese watches the curve and flex of Finch's calf muscle under the black hosiery as the shoe goes on and nods. This is not what he'd imagined when Finch said he'd gotten tickets.

Finch still isn't ready by the time Reese emerges, dressed in his crisp black suit -Almost, Finch calls from the bathroom. So, he takes Bear our for a short walk instead. When he returns twenty minutes later, Finch is just walking out to the living room. Bear whines. John whistles.

“I had no idea.”

“Well, why would you?” Finch answers

The car service arrivesd a few minutes later and Finch fills in more information during the ride. Reese tries to focus on the details: how the runner-up had previously been the belle of the ball before Montana Cherrybomb hit the scene and the fact that the young upstart had a criminal history. The left side of his brain processes all this while the right side is mesmerized by the glossy pink movements of Finch's mouth as he speaks. The way the street lights play over the impossibly high tousle of red curls, and glittering light refracts from the dress. 

There is already a line outside the Manhattan Club when the car pulls up. A bright, motley collection of drag queens of all shapes and sizes.

“What do I call you?” Reese asks as he escorts Finch from the car, his hand resting at the small of his... her back. Reese breathes in the scent of baby powder and exotic spiced perfumed and tightens his hold. 

“Of course, I should have introduced myself before we left. Tara Bytes, and the pleasure is all mine. You are John Anderson.”

John nods. They are at the door now, then a moment later, inside the plush lounge. He scans the room for an empty table near the stage wing and the emergency exit.

Finch is pure Tara now in the shimmery green gown cinched at the waist and flared over her hips. Tortoise shell glasses and perfectly arched brows frame her blue eyes. “You look magnificent,” John murmurs against her ear as he pulls a chair out for her.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Anderson, but right now we have a job to do. Do you see anything out of the ordinary?”

John flashes a grin. “Nothing yet. I'll go get us some drinks and check out the rest of the place. Will you be okay here?”

Tara gives a thumbs up, then rotates her hand to make a poking motion. “I'll be fine.”

The lounge is filling up which gives John an opportunity to study the faces in the room as he crosses over to the bar. In truth, no one looks out of place. The room is full of glamorous divas and an assortment of escorts, some in suits much like his own, others in more daring outfits made up of scraps and straps of leather. He decides he got off easy in the costuming department.

“What'll you have, hon?” The bartender asks, snapping John out of his hazy thought of Finch dressing him in some sort of form fitted leather contraption.

“House specialty. Two.”

“This your first time here? I'd remember a face like yours.” The bartender says as he pulls two hurricane glasses from the rack and fills them with ice.

“We came to see Montana Cherrybomb.”

“Don't they all?” The bartender rolls his eyes as he generously pours rum into the glasses. “I hope you're not disappointed if you came to see her win the crown again.”

John watches with interest as the bartender adds cherry Heering liquor to the drinks, then a little bit of lemon juice. “Stiff competition this year?”

“Every year, hon,“ he says as he expertly layers orange juice and pineapple juice into the drinks. “But this year Montana has some real competition. It's going to be a fun show, I'll tell you that.”

“What is it?” John asks, as the bartender pushes the frosted, fruity drinks towards him.

“The best Bahama Mama in town!” The bartender answers with pride as he finishes both drinks with a splash of grenadine. “The first two are on the house. Call it a welcoming gift and an invitation to come back whenever you want.”

“Oh, I think we'll be back, if I have any say in it.” John leaves a twenty dollar tip and picks up the two drinks to carry back to the table. As he picks his way through the pressing throng of the audience, John catches sight of something out of the ordinary in his peripheral vision. A heavy man in a dark, ill-fitting suit walks with purpose along the back wall of the club and disappears behind the heavy stage curtains.

“I think I just found our threat,” John says, setting the drinks down in front of Tara. “Get ready to move if I tell you to,” he finishes, flicking open the button on his jacket before setting off to follow the man backstage.

 

**\--**

 

In the end, it is a ridiculously easy case to solve. John finds the man skulking in a dark corner backstage and, after a little active encouragement, the man spills the beans. The upstart, Miss Villa Nova, has decided this was her year to win the triple L crown and has taken matters into her own hands by hiring a local thug to take Montana out of the competition.

John has the situation under control in a matter of minutes and is able to rejoin Finch, or rather, Tara, before the curtain goes up. “I left them gift-wrapped for Lionel out by the dumpster. He's on his way over now.”

“Excellent work, John!”

“Be careful there, Tara, “ John says, pulling one of the Bahama Mamas to his mouth as he lounges back into his seat. “Flattery might get you in trouble later.”

 


	2. Harold Wren/Nathan Ingram -One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's decent into deviant behavior began years ago at MIT.

Harold's tongue was thick and woolen and coated with the acidic residue of last night's Big Mac, small fries and orange drink.

“Do you need the trash can again?”

“No.” Harold groaned as he pulled his thin pillow over his head. The bed dipped and shifted as Nathan dropped down and stretched out beside him, his big, warm hand drawing the sheet up over Harold's shoulders.

“Want some water?”

“Why did you let me drink so much?” Harold mumbled as Nathan's hand warmed through the sheet, sweeping over Harold's back.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Was I?”

“You danced.”

“Oh, god!" he said, blanching. "How much did I drink?” Rhetorical, because he remembered the dancing now; Karen Whitaker, Angie Mopather, and later, because he wasn't really dancing anymore at that point, Nathan. Nathan and his strong hands steadying Harold on the dance floor, guiding him out of the party, holding Harold close to his side as he found food for them before leading the way back to the East Campus dorm. Things get fuzzy now: Harold may have peed on the McDermott Court lawn, Nathan may have held his head as the unhappy meal made its way back up, and most definitely it was Nathan who stripped him down to his boxers, cleaned him up, and tucked him into bed.

Nathan smoothing a slow hand up and down his back. “You'll live, Harold. Trust me. I know your limit now, next time I'll stop you sooner.”

“Even if I'm dancing?”

“Especially if you're dancing.” His hand stilled at the small of Harold's back, as warm through the sheet as his breath was against his ear. “You should get up. I'm going to get you some food.”

Harold swallowed back a rising tide of nausea and clutched the pillow tighter over his head.

“Get up, Harold, I'll be back in a few minutes. You'll want the food.” Then Nathan's warmth was gone and moments later, Nathan himself was gone. After a few minutes Harold rolled out of bed, eyes stinging at the bright morning light streaming through the windows, stomach lurching at the very idea of breakfast. Still, he stumbled to the small in suite bath and relieved himself, ran a hot shower to wash the night away.

“Better?” Nathan asked when Harold emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped over his hips.

“Moderately. What's in the box?”

“Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, wheat toast, and a coffee.”

“I don't like coffee.” Harold groused as he took a seat at the work table, his back to the windows, and began picking at the contents of the Styrofoam box, ignoring the steaming drink.

“No, and you definitely won't like this one, but it'll help.” Nathan walked over to the shelf where he kept his personal alcohol stash and a small collection of mismatched glassware.

“Isn't it a little too early to start on round two?” Harold asked between nibbles of the buttered toast as he watched Nathan pull a mug from behind the glasses.

“It's almost noon. And this isn't for me.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Nathan measured a generous pour of Bacardi dark rum into the mug, followed by a pour of simple syrup. Harold arched a brow as Nathan brought the mug over to him. “Black Rose, a little hair of the dog,” Nathan said, thumbing the lid off the coffee. “It'll spike your blood sugar and level you out just enough until the food kicks in.”

Harold choked on his toast as the aroma of coffee blended with the rum and syrup and filled the small room. “No.”

“Trust me.” Nathan took the chair opposite Harold then pushed the mug across the table. “I feel a little responsible for you ending up like this in the first place.”

“Only a little?” Harold said as he took the mug. “I wanted to stay in and study for finals.”

“If you'd done that you then I would never have known just how good your are on a dance floor. Drink.”

Harold took a sip. It wasn't bad. In fact, the hot, sweet coffee felt good going down. The rum warmed him through and he kept drinking until the mug was empty. “So what's my limit anyway?”

“Three cups of party punch.” Nathan fished himself a strip of bacon out of the box.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Sure. You're an honest drunk. And handsy to boot.”

“Did I...?”

“Don't worry, Harold, your secrets are still safe. Promise”


	3. Harold Finch/Joss Carter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold appreciates Joss Carter. In a purely professional way, of course.

Cracking the Lorenza case had been a combination of hard work and a little luck. Carter and Fusco had gathered enough hard evidence to convince the DA's office to file first degree murder charges against Soup Bone and Tiny Chief. All said, it had been a good day so Carter was in a generous mood when Taylor called asking permission to stay at Jason Miller's house for the weekend; because Jason had apparently won passes to some big comic convention – in a contest Jason didn't even remember entering, she said yes.

There was a lot of that kind of weird luck going around these days.  
By the end of the day her pile of backlogged paperwork had been whittled to a manageable stack. Evidence filed, reports written. Her mood was positively magnanimous when her cell rang again.  
“How did I know this was going to be you? Don't tell me, you need me to do something?”

“Detective, I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time?”

 “That depends -what do you want, Finch?” she asked warmly. The truth was it had been a while since she'd heard from Finch or John. Oh, there were still plenty of kneecapping cases for the beat cops to investigate, enough that she knew her two mysterious partners were still hard at work, they just hadn't called on her for help in a few weeks. Not that she'd been keeping track.

“Ah. Actually I'm calling to see if you'll join me for cocktails this evening.”

“Finch,” she said flatly.

“Perhaps two. You've been of tremendous service to our endeavors of late and I would like to show my appreciation.”

“Right. You know, you could just send flowers?”

“Oh, where's the sport in that, Detective? Unless you already have other plans for your free weekend?”

“How did you know about my weekend, Finch?”

“Really, Detective. Shall we say eight o'clock? I'll send a car.” Finch ended the call before she could press him about his involvement in Jason Miller's unexplained good fortune. Carter shook her head as she pocketed her phone; that was one more question for her already long list.

At eight on the dot she looked out of her front window: the car was waiting outside and Finch was standing on the sidewalk beside the open rear passenger door. Carter gave herself a last once over: a deep plum dress, asymmetrically cut to just skim her knees, loose curls tumbling over her shoulders, no lipstick on her teeth. She was ready.

“So this is different,” she said after she was settled into the town car and the headed to the restaurant. “Last time you invited me out it was a blues and cues joint, and all I got out of it was a glass of water.”

“Certainly you'll forgive the extenuating circumstances surrounding our last meet up. And thank you for allowing me the opportunity to make it up to you.”

"Okay. So where are we going?"

The Top Hat Club, Carter came to learn on the drive over, was the latest offering in the New York cocktail club scene. Finch, as it turned out, was not really a cocktails man, however, he did enjoy good food and the Top Hat was also the new home of world renowned Master Chef, Jean Leclerc. Soon enough, with reservations for Mr. Swan, they were inside the club and seated against a window with an expansive view of the city.

“You should invite me out for drinks more often, Finch. This place is beautiful.” Carter said, taking in the deep red carpet and rich dark wood décor that gleamed under the subdued lighting of the crystal chandeliers overhanging each table.

“I'll keep that in mind, Detective.” he answered in a quiet voice, a shy smile tugging his lips.  
A clean cut young waiter arrived with the cocktail menu and, after explaining all of the options, went away with their order of two house specialties.

“So, no John tonight?” Carter asked innocently enough, tucking an escaped curl back behind her ear. “You both got the night off?”

“Ah," Finch nodded, recognizing this line of questioning. "Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw are otherwise indisposed tonight, it's just you and me.”

“And how convenient. You know, Taylor's friend won some tickets to the biggest show in town this week. Just... out of the blue. Now, does that seem odd to you?”

Finch busied himself with tucking his napkin onto his lap. “I suppose it might. I've learned not to question good luck too deeply. How is Taylor doing by the way, and you? It's been a while since we've had the chance to catch up.”

Carter arched a brow, “ 'Catch up?' Okay, Finch, now I really know you're up to something,” she said, laughing. “But I'll play along -everything is fine. Taylor's started to think about colleges now.”

Conversation came easily on this neutral ground. And so did laughter when, after offering to help with letters of recommendations, Finch deadpanned the fact that college admissions computers were disappointingly easy to access.

"Don't even think about it -" She was shaking her head at that one line she was sure she'd never cross when the drinks arrived.

“Two Anadulsas,” The young man announced as he sat the iced highball glasses in front of them. “Our Chef personally created this recipe: imported Cherry Heering brandy, organic cranberry juice, and our finest Grand Cru Champagne.”

The drink was striking red against the white tablecloth. After the waiter left them to enjoy, Carter lifted her glass. “Here's to continued good luck.” She touched her glass to his and returned Finch's bright smile. Her Anadulsa was cool, crisp and sweet. Yes, she could get used to these random drink invitations.


	4. Nathan Ingram/Alicia Corwin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan has never been good at separating business from pleasure.

“You started without me,” Nathan said as he slid onto the empty stool next to the brunette.

“And you're late.” She lifted her shot glass and signaled two fingers to the bartender.

“Are we celebrating?”

“No.” She traced her finger through the condensation on the side of her glass. “The higher ups are getting impatient.”

“You mean Weeks?”

She downed the rest of her drink then set the empty glass onto the polished wood counter with a discreet clunk. “How close are you, Nathan?”

“Patience, Alicia,” Nathan smiled warmly. “What are we drinking?”

“Absolutely Fruity,” The bartender answered, returning with the fresh drinks. The woman placed cocktail napkins in front of them, followed by two chilled rocks glasses. “Equal parts Absolute, watermelon schnapps and 99-proof banana liqueur.”

After the bartender moved on to another customer Nathan picked up his pastel drink suspiciously. “That bad, huh?”

“You wouldn't think it, but it packs a punch,” Corwin said, finally relenting and offering him a droll smile and a toast touch of her glass against his. 

Ingram gave the cocktail a swirl then sipped. He grunted, surprised, and took a second, longer drink. “It tastes like summer.”

“Weeks.” Her smile faded as she brought up the name of her boss again. “Nathan, he's going to want to take delivery of your machine sooner rather than later. He thinks you're deliberately slowing down production.”

“And you?”

“I think you're building in your...safeguards.” Alicia took another sip. “I don't know what...nefarious schemes you think we have in store for your machine, but I assure you, building it, letting us use it to protect the country, to protect American lives, this is a good, noble thing. You should trust us.”

He quaffed the rest of the cocktail before answering. “I trust you, Alicia. And I ask you to extend me just a little in return. The machine is a complex system, it takes time.”

“You might not have that luxury. You -” She stopped short, dropped her head for a moment and inhaled. “I'll try to hold Weeks off.”

Nathan suspended his empty glass from his fingertips. “Thank you.” He set the glass down carefully. “Let's get out of here, Alicia.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Nathan.”

He leaned in close, enjoying the banana melon scent to the air between them. “It's not, but come home with me anyway," he murmured, thumbing over her dangle earring. “I've been dying to know what your hair looks like out of this elastic.” Alicia answered with a sharp intake as he trailed his fingers down the side of her neck.

“How much time do you need to get your system ready to ship?” she asked, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as Nathan's fingertips massaged the tense muscles at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

“Two, maybe three months more.” Nathan whispered under the din of the bar, his fingers easing off her neck to tangle through the loose hair of her ponytail.

“Okay.”

Ingram narrowed his eyes. “'Okay' you can buy me three more months or -”

Corwin pulled her purse up to her lap, the motion breaking the contact between them. She drew out two twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the counter. “Or, 'okay'. Let's go,” she said, standing.


	5. Root, Harold Finch, John Reese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there were three.  
> Implied major character deaths.

Holed up in a dead zone in the the meatpacking district, it was John who found her after the second day of silence. He coaxed her out of the dark warehouse, threw his arm over her shoulders and guided her, back flat against the maze of corrugated tin walls, to the waiting car at the loading dock. John eased her into the back seat and tossed a blanket over her before slamming the door and jumping into the passenger seat. Harold shifted into drive and they were going so fast and they drove so long and she realized they would not be picking up anymore passengers. That's when she gave up hope.

Harold finally stopped the car at a small airfield. John replaced the blanket with his jacket. He finger combed her tangled curls as best he could then perched a pair of dark glasses on her face. His arm firm at her waist, he held her close as they followed Harold to the gate, and after a few quick punches of the keypad lock, through the gate, past the hangers, onto the apron. John had them onboard the cargo plane, emblazoned with the red and gold Kahlúa logo, in under a minute. Harold had them in the air in under three. The New York City skyline fell away and there was nothing but wide blue ocean below. That's when Root finally accepted the silence.

 

 

“Pull up! Pull up!”

Harold white knuckled the control wheel. John clutched the throttle levers. The warning horns competed with the loud shake of the yoke and the insistent mechanical plea: “Pull up! Pull up!”

In the end it would come down to Harold and his poorly socialized guard dog.

Her equilibrium was shot.

She couldn't feel how fast or how far they were falling from the sky.

Root turned a deaf ear to the frenzy of the cockpit and pressed her nose to the window. A speck of land, surrounded by so much blue, rushing up to meet her. Root smiled.

 

But they didn't die.

 

 

John was clutching Harold to his body and screaming across the cold waves at her, “Swim!” And she swam. She navigated the wooden freight crates that bobbed in the water. She caught hold of an emergency raft that had, inexplicably, escaped the water landing. They gathered what they could between the ocean and the rocky beach ahead.

What they didn't load into the raft came in later with the tide. Smashed open cases of Kahlúa and Havana Club rum. Bottles of Absolute vodka, Pernod absinthe, Jameson's and Glenlivet, and water, hundreds of intact bottles washed up on the shore.

He was repeating himself now, slower. “Look for fire wood. Don't stray from the beach. Root, are you listening to me?”

No.

John's hands were warm on her shoulders, he looked past her, to Harold, barefoot, trousers rolled to his knees, hand shading his eyes as he scanned the empty horizon.

“Leave her here, John. I'll look for wood. We still have a few hours of daylight.”

“Harold, I'm not going to -”

“John. Leave her be. Ms. Groves is in no condition to help us at the moment. Bring her over. I'll keep an eye on her. We need you to get up to that crest to see what we've gotten ourselves into.”

“An alcoholic's paradise,” she murmured as John walked her inland to the raft and their rough base camp. The waves were still delivering bottles. Then John was gone, and after a while Harold left too and it was just her and the ocean and the silence.

 

Harold had a fire going by the time John returned. He had scavenged the flight crew bags and plastic coolers that floated in with the bottles as well. They ate a dinner of roasted fish and raw coconuts. Harold and John discussed their dwindling options. Root wandered across the sand to their stash.

She felt tropical and undone and picked up two sand crusted bottles; Kahlúa and rum. One of the salvaged coolers was still packed for airplane coffee service. A warm carton of cream, soggy sugar packets, stir sticks, shrink-wrapped paper cups.

“We haven't seen a boat all day. I suppose it's safe to say we veered off of the main shipping lanes. And a rescue fire is out of the question.”

“So...?” John dragged lines in the sand with his finger.

“So, I don't know. You didn't see any neighboring islands but that doesn't mean there aren't local fishermen. We sleep. We see what the morning brings.”

“We drink,” Root said, sitting down by the fire with her booty in hand. “We drink and watch the sunset.”

“Ms. Groves -”

“Shh. We drink.” She ignored the look that passed between the two men while she filled their cups: a generous shot of the coffee liqueur, a heavy pour of rum, the cream. “High Jamaican Wind, one of Sameen's favorites,” she said passing each cup along after she made it. “It would be better with ice. Maybe we'll get some of that in the morning too?”

They drank until the bottles rolled towards the fire, empty. John had built a rough lean-to and sleeping mat of coconut leaves against the bluff earlier. Now, he settled Harold farthest into the fragile shelter then nudged Root in beside Harold. After tending the fire he finally came to join them.

Because of the drink and the swim and the crash and the heat, sleep came quickly. So did the familiar nightmare. Sameen, Daizo, Lionel... everyone. She'd fed all of it through the cochlear implant, an unrelenting stream of data. She'd called to Root as Samaritan patched the seven compromised servers and overwrote her code.

The silence startled Root out of her sleep.

John brushed a hand over her back. “It's okay, Sam. We've got you.”


	6. Root, John Reese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Machine gets a lead on Samaritan.

She'd gotten the calendar alert to meet someone at this dark, neighborhood pub at 8:45pm. So, of course, she came at seven. At 8:44pm she caught sight of her appointment. From the way his face went cold and flat, she had to assume he saw her too.

“John,” she purred, crossing her legs on the barstool.

“Root.”

“Don't just stand there, you're attracting attention.” Root tipped her head towards the empty seat next to her. “So, this is a surprise.”

“Who were you expecting?” He wasn't making small talk, he was interrogating her.

“I'd hoped it would be Sameen.”

“Guess that makes two of us. What do you want, Root?”

She blinked. “I don't make the calendar, John. We're both just following orders.” Just then her cell phone buzzed. `- offer him a Bite of the Apple -`

“What is it?” John rasped, his eye's narrowing.

“I don't...” She looked past him, to the shelves of colored bottles behind the bar. Her phone buzzed again. “I've got it,” she murmured to no one in particular. Root raised her hand to catch the bartender's attention. She could hear John shift in his seat.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked with a smile.

“Two Bites of the Apple,” she answered.

“Coming right up!”

“That's the message the Machine sent you?”

“Have some faith, John.” She watched as the bartender pulled two Collins glasses from the rack and filled them with ice. A shot of lime juice, half a shot of amaretto, and, without missing a beat, pulled a bottle of apple juice from the under-counter cooler to finish the drinks.

Within a few minutes the bartender was setting the drinks in front of them. “That's weird. People don't really order this that often, but you're my second customers tonight.”

“Really?” Root tossed her hair back and cupped both hands around her glass. “Who else ordered one?”

“Didn't catch her name, a pretty blonde. French maybe? She met up with someone here earlier.”

“You ever see her here before?” John asked.

“Her? No. Her buddy, old school gentleman, an English guy, he comes in about twice a week. He kinda' stands out in this neighborhood.”

Root smiled at the bartender then turned slowly towards John. “Sounds like we're in good company with this cocktail. Maybe we'll run into our rare drink friends one of these days.”

“You just missed them, actually. They were in with the after work crowd. Try it again next Wednesday,” the bartender finished before excusing himself to take care of another customer.

Root lifted her glass and tapped it against John's. “Guess we'll have to wait to see what our calendars look like next Wednesday.”  


	7. Harold Finch/John Reese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Riley and Professor Whistler meet for dinner after work.

The second hand clicked along the face of the squad room wall clock.

4:59:57

4:59:58

4:59:59

5:00:00

Detective John Riley closed the file folder and set it atop the tower of papers stacked on his desk. He pushed back from the desk.

“See you tomorrow, Lionel,” he said, patting his partner's shoulder as he walked past his desk. In an instant Riley had his suit jacket on and was disappearing down the corridor.

John Riley had a date.

In the beginning, they were just testing the covers. Detective Riley and Professor Whistler meeting at the dog park – a shared love for Belgian Malinois. Lingering games of chess after the walks. One day the Professor showed up without his dog. So, The Detective and Professor shared a lunch at the cafe across the street instead.

Then the Professor hacked the mesh net.

After that they started meeting for dinner, arranged over their new secret cell phone network.

John arrived at the restaurant first. He took a booth near the kitchen, far enough away from the sight lines of the cameras trained on the front door, hostess stand, and bar. He ordered two waters and a stiff mixed drink for himself while he waited.

While he burned a lot of his restless energy away working undercover as an NYPD detective, there were so many rules and so much paperwork. He was glad to have the numbers again. And Shaw. He was glad for the chance to feel useful again.

The waitress returned with his drink. John's watch read 5:43:27.  Harold was late. Between his students and the petty dictatorship of his department head, Harold was spending more of his time on campus. When he finally arrived, a full half hour late, the effects of all that time were written all over his slumped shoulders.

“Midterms.” Harold muttered as he threw his leather bag down then edged himself into the booth. “I fear for the future of the world if this is the best and brightest of the next generation.”

“Bad day?” John asked.

“They are all so _needy_ ,” Harold answered. “They need help with the most basic things!” He was still complaining about his students when the waitress returned. “I'll have what he's having and bring a bottle of Chianti.”

John opened his mouth in order to correct Harold's assumption about his drink, then stopped. From the sounds of his day, Harold just might appreciate the extra alcohol.

“And you, how was your day, John?”

They nursed the drinks though the Caprese salad and bruschetta poured the wine when the Veal Sorrento and Cappelini was served.

Under the table, John had eased his leg along Harold's. Harold was calmer now. The conversation switched from the work day to the numbers, to the needs of their newly re-established home base. John peppered him with questions and confirmations of commitment. Harold slowly bobbed his head “yes” to everything and sucked a long string of pasta into his mouth.

The older man's highball glass was empty and so was his wine glass.

“Harold, did you have lunch today?”

“Nope,” he said, reaching for the wine bottle. “Student conferences and grading papers. All day.”

John covered his hand over Harold's. “Eat first. I'll let you have another glass after you get more food on your stomach.”

“You'll let me?”

“Yes.” John pulled the Chianti away from Harold. “That Adult LIT is kicking your ass right now.”

Harold gave him a quizzical glance, frowned, looked down at the empty highball. “Adult what?”

“Adult Long Island Iced Tea: equal parts dry gin, vodka, triple sec, light rum – it packs a strong punch.”

“Oh.” Harold nodded solemnly. “It's a highly effective drink.” Then, he picked up his fork and dutifully went to work on the veal and pasta.

John watched him eat and smiled.  


	8. Harold Wren/Nathan Ingram -Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Nathan has always been good at weaseling past Harold's defenses.

“Are you making another?” Harold asked, sitting cross legged on his dorm bed, head down, scribbling in his notebook. “I'll have one too.”

“You sure?” Nathan asked as he pulled two fresh Collins glasses from the the makeshift bar-slash-book shelf. “This would be your third.”

“Hmm?” Harold murmured as he paused his writing to flip through his copy of The Dungeon Master's Guide. A moment later, it clicked -“I can handle three drinks, Nathan,” he said with a scowl.

“I'm just looking out for you. You don't handle morning-afters all that well.” Nathan said, chuckling while he filled the stainless steel mixer with ice then began building enough of the cocktail for both of them. Two shots each of tequila silver, vodka, triple sec, light rum, gin, followed by a generous pour of sour mix.

“That happened once. And that was only because you made me go to that stupid dorm party.”

“You had a blast at that party, if I remember correctly.” Nathan flashed a bright smile and gave the mixer a sharp shake. “And my memory is flawless.”

Harold caught Nathan's contagious, careless smile, nodding his head in time to Nathan working the cold shaker up and down. “I wouldn't know, I don't remember.”

Nathan expertly filled the two glasses then topped off the clear mixture with a pour of the refrigerator tea. “One more Iced Teaspoon coming up,” he said as he carried the drinks over to Harold's corner bed. “What have you been working on all day?” He asked as he passed Harold a glass before settling himself on the edge of the bed.

Harold frowned, “Nothing. I'm mapping out a new campaign.”

“For your game thing?” Nathan casually reached for the notebook, tugging it when Harold put his hand over the cover. “Come on, tell me about it.” Nathan sipped his cocktail and flipped the spiral bound pages, his brow furrowing as he skimmed the inked notes and sketches.

“You don't have to humor me. I know you're not interested in D&D.”

“To play? No.” Nathan closed up the notebook and passed it back. “But that doesn't mean I don't like hearing about your campaigns. So, what are you cooking up for your players?”

Harold took his notes back and tucked them into his handbook. He took a long drink.

Nathan was still there, stretched out on his bed, patiently waiting.

Harold sighed. “Okay. I'm designing a variation of the Spelljammer campaign...”


End file.
